


An Hour Behind the Summer

by kutubiyya



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Established Relationship, M/M, Middlesex boys continue to interfere in Finny's lovelife, Repairing Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 09:24:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3351530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kutubiyya/pseuds/kutubiyya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve remembers Stuart’s anger, back in Australia: <i>Fuck off, then. Give up, why don’t you?</i></p><p>They fought for three solid hours, the night before Steve had to get on a plane, sent home because his form had collapsed so far he was deemed <i>unselectable</i>. They haven’t spoken since Stuart walked out of Steve’s room that night; since Stuart <i>stalked</i> out, arms and back and neck rigid, like he could barely contain himself. Stuart never was any good at concealing outrage, on the field or off it.</p><p>(Trent Bridge, Headingley and Nottingham; June 2014. Rated M for bits of sweariness and minor implied smut.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Hour Behind the Summer

Steven Finn has a rule that he’s spent the past six months trying to live by.

Okay, maybe it’s not a rule, he reflects, as he looks out of the dressing room window over the lunchtime milling-about at Trent Bridge. Maybe _rule_ is too strong a word. It doesn’t have _Thou shalt not_ in it, or anything. It’s more just a general sort of conviction. It goes like this:

 _Don’t waste your life moping over Stuart Broad_.

And, okay, maybe he’s not doing a great job of living by it, either. Especially not on a day like today, when he’s playing for Middlesex at Trent Bridge and Stuart’s not here (of course), he’s up at Headingley, training with England.

So Steve’s heard, anyway. It’s not like he’s keeping track of where Stuart is, or anything. It’s not like his heart skips a beat whenever he hears someone mention him, still. It’s not like he spent half the Epsom Derby, the other week, looking round to see where Stuart was instead of schmoozing with sponsors (not that Stu was difficult to spot, towering over the crowd in that entirely unnecessary top hat). It’s not as if being at Trent Bridge is a bit like torture because there are reminders of Stuart’s stupid, pretty face _everywhere_.

In conclusion: it isn’t really a rule, and he isn’t living by it, either. Other than that, he’s _completely_ fine.

“— _Finny_.”

Steve startles at the sound of his name. There’s a hand on his shoulder. This narrows down the pool of who might be talking to him, because there aren’t that many people who can comfortably reach that high. Also, there aren’t many people likely to be in this dressing room who can say his name and sound quite so sad. He takes a breath.

“Hiya, Tim,” he says, in his very best cheery voice, as he turns. “You’re going to leave a few for me this innings, right?”

Tim just looks at him.

Steve tries pretending not to understand his expression. “What? You got seven in the last one, it’s only fair—”

“Finny.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Yeah, so I said four times before you heard me.”

Steve really hopes that’s an exaggeration. He glances quickly around the dressing room; empty, he’s glad to see, except for the two of them and Eoin, who’s sitting about a dozen feet away, one boot on and the other in his hands. The boot’s being examined in such minute detail that Eoin is definitely listening in, though.

“Sorry,” Steve says at last. “Miles away.”

“Mmm,” says Tim. “Australia is pretty far away. And long ago.”

“It’s nothing to do with Stu! I’m just—”

“Who mentioned Stuart Broad?” Tim looks smug, thick black brows making sarcastic arcs above twinkling eyes. “Only you.”

“Fine, okay!” Steve waves an arm in general exasperation. “I was thinking about him. But just a little bit. I wasn’t moping.”

“You were definitely moping,” Eoin chips in.

Steve rounds on him. “Who asked you?”

Eoin holds his boot up, pokes at the sole just under the toe. “You did, that weekend when you wouldn’t leave my flat. Badgering me into giving you advice about him.” He points the boot at Steve, looking grave. “Involve me once, involve me always.”

“Yeah, well. Nothing for you to be involved in anymore. It’s over, remember?”

“That,” says Tim, “sounds suspiciously mopey to me.”

Steve folds his arms. “Stop ganging up on me!”

Tim tilts his head to one side. “We’re only doing it because—”

“—we’re sick of you sighing about the place—”

Eoin cuts off with a yelp, because Tim’s snatched up an armguard from the bench beside him, and thrown it behind him – low and fast and underarm and _accurate_ – without even looking round at his target.

Steve nods his appreciation. “Skills,” he says.

“Experience,” says Tim; his smile’s a quick flash of teeth. “Anyway, what Morgs _meant_ to say, I’m sure, is that we’re only ganging up on you because we care about you.”

Eoin snorts. “I don’t.”

Tim leans down and grabs what Steve’s pretty sure is one of Chris’ trainers. He tosses it up and catches it in one hand, as if preparing to throw.

“I mean, of _course_ I do!” says Eoin, quickly and loudly. “I totally care about you.”

Tim grunts, but doesn’t actually put the trainer down. “Stuart’s up at Headingley now, right?”

Steve looks down at his feet. “Apparently. So?”

“Well. You’ve no need to come back down south this evening. You’re not playing in the T20 tomorrow. Why don’t you go up to Leeds to see him? We’ll cover for you with the others.”

Steve’s stomach has lurched before he’s even properly processed the idea. He wants to; he really, really wants to. But. “I can’t just turn up at Headingley unannounced. Not after everything that…” He shakes his head. “I can’t.”

He remembers Stuart’s anger, back in Australia: _Fuck off, then. Give up, why don’t you?_

They fought for three solid hours, the night before Steve had to get on a plane, sent home because his form had collapsed so far he was deemed _unselectable_. They haven’t spoken since Stuart walked out of Steve’s room that night; since Stuart _stalked out_ , arms and back and neck rigid, like he could barely contain himself. Stuart never was any good at concealing outrage, on the field or off it.

Tim, Steve realises, is talking to him again.

“—these things called _phones_ , now, Finny. Remarkable inventions.”

Steve pushes a hand through his hair. He can already see himself typing it out: _I’m sorry. I—_

He realises he can’t remember the last time he kissed Stuart; that last night, or did they start arguing straight away? He’d been twitchy for days by that point, shrugging off Stuart’s touch as often as he returned it. There was something about physical contact, the sympathy in it – the _pity_ – that Steve increasingly found he couldn’t stand. Staring down the barrel of a humiliating departure, confidence crumbling further with every delivery in the nets, he found Stuart’s efforts to shore him up were just salt rubbed in the wound. Stuart, after all, wasn’t on the verge of being sent home because he couldn’t bloody well _bowl_ anymore.

Steve became, in short, unbearable. _No wonder_ , he thinks, _no wonder he—_

“I can’t call him,” he says. “What if he just…? And I don’t want to sound desperate.”

His chest is aching, like it’s just waking up to a pain he’s been trying to ignore for so long.

“Finny, you _are_ desperate,” says Tim. “That’s part of what makes you so adorable.”

Steve gives him a flat stare; it’s returned with nothing but patience and affection. Which stings a bit – _I’m an adult, I can_ cope, _thank you very much_ – but not nearly as much as Stuart’s pity did, back in Australia. Steve wonders why that is. He thinks he knows the answer.

“So you’re basically saying,” he mutters, “you like me because I’m pathetic.”

Tim’s mouth quirks a bit. “Not _only_ because you’re pathetic…”

Steve folds his arms again, tighter this time. “Cheers, mate. That’s a great way to boost my self-esteem. I’m sure Stuart’ll find that _really_ irresistible.”

“Make him come to you.” Eoin’s voice, cutting across both the room and Steve’s gathering gloom, is like an audible shrug: _make him come to you_ ; no big deal.

Steve almost laughs. “What?”

Eoin spreads his arms, palms upwards. “Get him to come down here.”

“How? Leeds is hours away, and he’s in the middle of training.” _And I don’t know if he’s forgiven me._

“So?” Eoin smiles. “Dead simple, right. Was there somewhere you two used to go regularly, when you were here?”

“You mean other than Nando’s?”

Morgs awards the ceiling a _Give me strength_ look.

“I’m joking! It was a joke, I promise. Yeah, there was a place.”

That Indian. Shabby-looking little place but it did the best lamb bhuna he’s ever tasted and the smiling waiters greeted them by name, after the first few times. Steve suddenly has a vivid image of Stuart’s face across the table from him, bashful smile lit by a flickering candle, gaze sliding down to his plate. Steve hadn’t expected Stuart to be shy. Before and after that moment, Stuart took the lead in pretty much everything: from the first flirty comments to the first time they slept together, from inviting him out for dinner ( _You mean, like… a date?_ Steve said, and Stuart smiled and said, _Yes, exactly like a date_ ) to handing over a spare key to his flat.

But Steve said the words first, and Stu was suddenly, unexpectedly, endearingly speechless.

“Still with us, Finny?” says Tim, softly.

Steve sighs. “Yeah.”

Eoin is leaning forward. “So text him about it,” he says. “No preamble or anything. Just ask him if he knows what time it’s open ’til, because you were thinking about calling in there this evening. Or if he’s got the number, because you want to call and check if they’ve got a table free last minute. Something like that.”

Steve frowns. “But couldn’t I just google that?”

“Finny, shh,” says Tim. “The master’s at work. Bathe in his wisdom.”

“Thanks,” says Eoin. “I think. Look, doesn’t matter whether you could google it. What matters is putting the idea in his head that you’re here. And making him wonder if you’re thinking what he’s thinking.”

“But…” Steve is trying not be visibly confused, because he doesn’t want Eoin to laugh at him. After a few moments of struggle he gives in, and asks, “What is he thinking?”

“He’s thinking about the two of you out for dinner together all those times, and all the intense hand-holding or whatever it is you used to do afterwards.” Eoin’s smiling again, and it’s a teasing smile but also an encouraging one. “And that, like, short-circuits his brain, so he doesn’t _care_ whether you could google all that for yourself, he just wants to be down _here_.”

Steve bites his lip. His heart’s lifted, just a bit. Just enough.

“I’ll have a think about it,” he says, as voices bubble up from the corridor outside, and the door pushes inwards; the rest of the team, returning from lunch.

“You do that,” says Tim, reaching out and giving Steve’s upper arm a hearty couple of pats.

Steve thinks about it all through the afternoon session. He doesn’t take any wickets, but then again nor does Tim.

Just before the end of tea, Steve takes a deep breath, and sends the message.

When he puts down his phone, and looks up, he sees Tim and Eoin sitting next to each other on the bench opposite, both grinning at him. He rolls his eyes at them, but he’s got a tentative little buzz in his chest when he takes the field again a few minutes later. They lose, but Steve has Michael Lumb caught behind, and he chooses to take that as a good sign.

\--

Stuart Broad’s quite surprised when the phone buzzing turns out to be his own. There’s been a lot of mobile traffic during the long afternoon of holding poses while waiting for the sun to come out, or for Jimmy’s hair to be teased back into place, or for any one of the three thousand other reasons the Investec photoshoot has been taking so bloody long.

But up until now, none of the text messages flying into Headingley have been for him.

“Okay, let’s try that set up again,” says the photographer, peering at the viewscreen on her camera as she tabs back through the shots. “Stuart, you look a bit distracted in these.”

Jimmy and Cooky flash him practically identical looks of irritation, and Stuart has to suppress the urge to throttle them both. Oh, like _he’s_ the problem. Not Cooky giggling over his phone, or Jimmy shaking his head at his. Not the pair of them flirting, shamelessly, sneaking glances and brushing past each other and Jimmy even blowing on Cooky’s neck at one point to make him crack up and delay yet another shot.

Stuart has no idea what’s going on there. All he knows is he doesn’t want to be anywhere nearby when Swanny finds out.

He rolls his eyes at them, and strides over to grab his phone from where it’s lying on the grass a few feet away. The sun reflects off the screen as he bends down – yes, the sun would be out _now_ , of course, when they mostly don’t need it anymore – making him flinch away, wincing.

It’s Steve.

Still half-crouching, Stuart stares at the name – so familiar, so unexpected – at the top of his inbox. _Finny_. Stuart never did change it from the safe, matey nickname. Not after the weeks (months?) of hazy haha-it’s-all-just-a-joke-aren’t-we-funny-just-like-Jimmy-and-Swanny flirting resolved into a drunken fumble and a hungover morning after so painfully awkward it was like something out of _The Office_. Not after they talked it out, twice, the second time with Steve less drunk and embarrassed. Not after they started pulling each other round corners and behind doors to snatch kisses just out of earshot of their teammates, or competing to see how loudly they could make each other lose control amid tangled sheets or up against the wall in hotel rooms next door to Jimmy, Cooky, Matty, KP, and, once (hilariously), Andy Flower. (No-one heard, or at least no-one admitting hearing – although Andy, at least, didn’t look either of them in the eye for a couple of days afterwards.)

Stuart didn’t even change the display to _Steve_ after the other man said _I love you_ over a curry and a few pints in Nottingham one evening – or after he himself, lying in Steve’s arms later that night, sweat drying on his skin and sleepily trying to rouse himself enough to clean up or at least pull the tangled sheets up over them (they never did grow out of a certain wrestling, wriggling, giggling approach to sex), abruptly found himself mumbling _I love you_ like the conversation over dinner had never ended, which in a way it hadn’t, and then repeating the words a few times because the squeak Steve made the first time was so disarming and the beaming smile that lit him up the second time demolished Stuart completely.

Standing in the shadow of the pavilion at Headingley, towards the end of a trying afternoon mostly spent watching two of his friends acting in a way that reminds him all too much of the early days of him and Steve, Stuart comes very close to deleting the text unread. He holds his thumb down over the inbox entry until a dialogue box pops up, asking him if he wants to consign whatever Steve has to say to oblivion.

Part of him does want to: the part that still sometimes replays those last few weeks down under, the way Steve started to flinch away every time Stuart reached for him, the way they came to snipe at each other more often than they smiled, the way Steve’s face twisted every time Stuart mentioned something that had happened out in the field, or talked to someone else about it within his hearing.

 _You’re so impressed with Ben Stokes, why don’t you go and fuck_ him, _instead?_

The horrible realisation, one day, that he sort of kind of wished Steve would be miserable somewhere else, so he could concentrate on his own cricket.

And so a gulf of impatience and incomprehension opened up between them, and it seemed like everything Stuart did just made it worse. Until eventually he stopped trying – accusing Steve, _Steve_ , of giving up, of all the hypocritical bullshit he could have picked – and they dropped all pretence. The night Steve was supposed to be packing to go home, Stuart went to his room, and they argued again, and he said the other words.

But another part of Stuart – the part that fell for that fatal combination of box-office looks and accidentally goofy charm more or less the first moment Finny tripped over his own feet on the way into an England dressing room, the part that remembers dancing with him at the MCG in 2010 on the night they retained the Ashes and the idea of them getting together was still a distant dream that he would’ve strenuously denied had anyone asked, the part that used to adore burying his hands in Steve’s hair while the other man made him shake and cry out – that part has to know.

He cancels the deletion, taps on the name. _Finny._

_Dont suppose you’ve got number for Jahangirs? Am in Nottingham, others heading back early for match 2moro but thought I wd stick around for a curry after stumps. want to know if table free. if that’s ok_

“You ready, Broady?” Cooky calls.

Stuart realises the hand holding the phone is shaking, slightly. He blanks the screen, and swallows.

It can’t be an accident that Steve’s thinking of Jahangir’s. Can it?

Stuart’s remembering the cocktail of emotion that overtook him that night when Steve put his pint down on the faded green tablecloth, leaned forward slightly, and laid out, for the first time, the truth of everything he felt. Shock, fear, joy, and – above all – love returned, although it took him a few hours, another couple of pints and a really fantastic orgasm before he admitted that last bit.

The thought of Steve there, on his own, is painful. As in a literal, physical pain in Stuart’s chest.

“Oi, Broady! We’ll be here all day!”

At the sound of Jimmy’s voice, Stuart drops his phone back into the grass.

“On my way,” he says.

When he gets back to them, Jimmy’s muttering something about how Stuart’s probably pressed the knees out of his trousers, crouching like for so long; but Stuart’s only half-listening.

By the third time he’s been sighed at for looking distracted at a crucial moment, he’s made up his mind; things go much more smoothly after that.

As soon as he can get back to his phone, he checks up on how Middlesex are doing. They’re being beaten handily by Notts. He’s not sure if that a good omen or a bad one – surely bad – but at least they’re still in play, so Steve hasn’t gone anywhere yet.

He taps out a reply, and sends it quickly, before he can change his mind.

_Fancy some company? I’m just up the road. In Leeds._

He probably should have left that last bit out; makes the whole thing sound less off-the-cuff than he’s really going for. Oh well.

\--

When he gets to the restaurant, Stuart spots Steve straight away. Tallest man in the room; how could he not?

Steve’s sitting at a table for two against the right-hand wall, his back to the door. Stuart gives a short, involuntary, “Ha,” under his breath, shaking his head: only Steve would sit somewhere he could be crept up on. If Stuart had got here first, if he hadn’t taken a distracted wrong turn and ended up stuck in a one-way system going the wrong direction, he would have made absolutely sure he could see the door, so he could enjoy the sight of Steve approaching.

Or so he could psych himself up before the other man sat down. There’s a churning in Stuart’s stomach, and he realises it’s nerves. He’s not used to the feeling. He doesn’t like it much.

They haven’t said anything much to each other, not really, since Australia. There was the Derby, with Steve looking ridiculously, unfairly good in top hat and tails: broad enough shoulders and chest to fill out the coat properly, the length of it at the back a compliment to his height (while Stuart felt like he himself looked, as so often, sort of gangly and stretched). But Stuart hesitated too long over the first greeting – a complex web of guilt trapping his tongue, not to mention residual annoyance and hurt at some of what Steve said in Australia – and things after that were awkward. Steve basically hid behind Morgs (which, under any other circumstances, would’ve been exactly as funny as that sounds); Morgs seemed more than happy to be used as a shield; and there was never any chance to talk to Steve alone.

Stuart lets the door close behind him, and starts to stride across the soft, thick carpet – new, he thinks, since the last time they were here – towards the table. He wants to see surprise on that slender face, a smile above the tapering jaw, and dimples; finds himself hoping for a lock or two of hair flopping down over the other man’s forehead, like it used to, like he remembers it.

He used to like pushing it back.

But his vision of rounding the table in a blaze of something or other is thwarted; one of the waiters sees him first, a short chap with receding black hair and a grin that – for all that it’s getting between him and Steve – makes something inside Stuart click into place. (He’s back. They’re back.)

“Stuart!” the waiter says. “Long time no see!”

“Rafiq,” Stuart says with a smile, letting his hand be shaken vigorously. “How’re you doing?”

They chat for a moment, and Stuart feels Steve watching him; it’s not quite how he pictured it, this scene, but maybe the reminder of how often they used to come here might help things along.

Not that this makes it easier when he finally reaches the table. Stuart gets caught up in trying to read the set of Steve’s mouth, the mood lurking in his brown-eyed gaze, and ends up hovering lamely behind the empty chair.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

Not a great start. Though some of Steve’s hair has indeed escaped from what looks like a fairly carefully combed style, which is good.

Silence. Then at the same time, they say:

“Mind if I—” “How’ve you—”

And again:

“Yeah, go for—” “Good, thanks—”

They stop. Exchange abashed smiles.

“Take two,” says Steve. “But sit down, before I get a crick in my neck.”

Stuart feigns outrage as he draws back the chair. “That’s my line.”

“You snooze, you lose.”

Stuart squints at him. “What?”

Steve snorts. “Honestly, I’ve no idea.” He rubs at his left eye with the heel of one hand. “Long and unproductive day in the field, and Morgs has been— Well. You?”

“Way more unproductive than yours, I guarantee it.”

“Oh?” Steve sits back. “Because I bowled sixteen overs for one measly wicket.”

“I spent the entire afternoon posing for photos and listening to Cooky tell some journalist I live in free tracksuits. And Jimmy saying I can’t afford to buy clothes that fit me.”

Steve grins. It’s distracting. “He’s not wrong about the tracksuits.”

“Not _you_ , too!” Stuart throws up his hands in mock despair. “God, I’m _so_ glad I came down here. Out of the fashion police, into the…”

“What?”

Stuart thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “Not a clue,” he says at last. “Nope, I… really don’t have a good way to finish that sentence.”

Steve pulls a vaguely sympathetic face. “It was such a promising start, too.”

“I know!” Stuart’s grinning as well, now.

Rafiq’s back, and wanting to take their drinks order.

“Oh. I, uh…” Steve looks at Stuart, who opts for a mango lassee. Steve asks for lemonade. He’s quiet after Rafiq goes, folding and unfolding his napkin, and Stuart finds himself talking to fill the silence.

“Today, though. Jimmy and Cooky flirting like you wouldn’t believe, and there’s me stuck in the middle.”

“Really?” says Steve. “What about Swanny?”

Stuart shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He moves to rest his elbows on the table, and ends up knocking into his cutlery. Irritated, he starts moving it all off to one side. “I only know what I saw. By the end of it I was just wishing they’d get a room already.”

In truth, he was jealous. Of them being at that stage – if it _was_ what it looked like – rather than this one.

“Be fair, Stu.” There’s something in Steve’s voice that makes Stuart look up, but Steve’s still staring at his napkin. “They’ve got wives and families. It’s not as easy for them as…”

Stuart holds his breath, but Steve doesn’t finish the thought, so Stuart finishes it for him.

“As it was for us?”

It comes out just a shade more aggressively than he means it to. Steve responds in kind.

“How’s your girlfriend?”

“Steve, come on…”

“Let me guess. Pretty, and not that into cricket?”

The silence that falls isn’t simply awkward, this time; it bristles with unspoken (but all-too-obvious) resentments, like they’re a pair of pissed-off dogs about ready to kick off.

 _Well, that didn’t take long_ , thinks Stuart.

The Ashes tour changed – ruined – so much for so many people, but until now he’s always harboured a small hope that it didn’t have to be that way for them. He’s resilient, and he wanted Steve to be the same: he wanted – wants – him back to his slightly insecure but basically cheerful self.

But it was never going to be like that.

Stuart settles an elbow in the space where his fork was, balls his hand into a fist and rests his chin on it; then changes his mind, presses his whitened knuckles against his mouth, instead. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go,” he says, eventually. “I don’t really know how it was supposed to go, but not like this.”

Steve doesn’t say anything.

In Australia, Steve called Stuart pig-headed, oblivious, self-centred; maybe he had a point. They’re not the guys they were. Things can’t just go back to normal.

Because he stayed, and Steve had to leave.

Their drinks arrive, then, and Rafiq takes their food orders. Stuart speaks on auto-pilot, realising he hasn’t even looked at the menu, and doesn’t need to. When they’re alone again, he waits as long as he can bear it, then takes a gamble.

“What if I told you that comment was about you? That I was looking for someone pretty, and…”

Steve folds him arms. “You mean you _were_ saying I don’t know much about cricket?”

“Not that bit. That was Swanny possessing my brain and forcing me to take the piss. And it’s not true, you know it’s not. No… I mean the bit about being pretty. It was you I was thinking of.” Stuart swallows. “You that I wanted to end up with.”

Steve looks down, and sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “Well. Water under the bridge, now.” He reaches for his glass.

“No.” Stuart’s voice sounds harsh to himself; raw.

Steve stares at him, hand frozen around his drink. There’s a tension around his mouth. Stuart wonders if that’s a good sign; a sign he still cares. Or maybe it’s just annoyance; maybe, inside there, he’s grinding his teeth.

Too late to worry about that, now. In for a penny.

“It’s not,” Stuart says. “Or at least… I don’t want it to be.”

Steve’s really bad at hiding his feelings. It helps: the sudden intake of breath, the colour flaring in his cheeks, the widening of his eyes, it all tells Stuart that it’s okay and he can carry on. He can’t imagine what it’d be like trying to have this sort of conversation with someone who plays their emotional cards a bit closer to their chest, like Jimmy or Trotty.

And if that little side-track thought wasn’t his brain stalling for time, Stuart doesn’t know what is.

He takes a breath, and plunges on.

“Truth is… I’ve missed you. More than— Yeah.”

For a long time, Steve just looks down at the table, and the only sign of life from him is the hand wrapped around his lemonade: his thumb’s rubbing back and forth against the glass, wiping away condensation.

Stuart waits, now; and, at last, Steve speaks. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t really thinking straight, back there. It wasn’t your fault, but I took it out on you. I said some shitty things, and I’m… I’m so sorry.”

Stuart lets out a breath and feels himself relax, properly, for the first time since he saw Steve’s name on his phone this afternoon. It’s a crazy thing he’s done, driving all the way down here this evening; but maybe. Maybe.

“Me too,” he says. “I definitely deserved some of what you said. You were going through a really bad time and I was a terrible” –he glances around, lowers his voice— “boyfriend. I should’ve supported you, and… well. I suppose I _am_ a bit self-centred.”

Steve looks up, eyebrows raised, the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips. “A bit?”

“All right! Don’t get cocky.” But Stuart’s smiling, and so’s Steve, and that’s how they still are when their food’s brought over, and Stuart makes a decision.

“Can I have a beer?” Stuart says to Rafiq, as he puts the plates down.

“Of course, of course. Tiger?”

“Please.”

Steve gives him a quizzical look. “Don’t you have to get back?”

This part, Stuart reflects, really _is_ in for a penny.

“I thought… I could drive back early. In the morning,” he says. He wants to look down at his plate; makes himself keep his gaze level. “Roads’ll be clearer.”

The sudden brightness, the surprised hope, that blooms in Steve’s face? It breaks Stuart, just a little bit.

“Oh,” Steve says faintly. “Right.”

 _Oh, Steve_ , Stuart thinks. _I really have missed you._

They’re not the same people they were; but everyone changes, all the time. It doesn’t mean things have to end. Maybe they can carry on, just… different. Maybe they can find a way that these new versions of themselves still fit together.

“We could—” Stuart finds he’s abruptly run out of words; he waves a hand, helplessly. “After. Do you want to… go back to mine?”

Steve’s grin is mischievous. “Thought you’d never ask,” he says, and Stuart regrets not ordering any poppadoms, because he’d give a lot for something to throw right now, and the curry’s much too good to waste.

Stuart’s beer arrives. Steve orders one for himself.

\--

They have a couple of beers, in the end; they leave Stuart’s car parked where it is, and take a taxi back to his flat.

Steve’s giddiness keeps trying to bubble over as they drive; he’s counting down the streets until he can let himself reach for Stuart’s hand.

 _Mock all you like, Morgs_ , he thinks; _hand-holding’s gold dust when you’ve barely seen each other in six months._

Talking of gold, he wants to mess up that hair, its schoolboy gelled quiff thing, as soon as possible. He wants to get to know that beautiful mouth again; he wants to be entwined in those long, smooth limbs. He wants all of him, right now; why isn’t the taxi going faster?

He hears Stuart clear his throat, catches a sidelong look from him; Steve realises he’s drumming his fingers, loudly, on the leather seat. He makes himself stop, and Stuart smiles, dipping his head and turning to look out of the window. Steve’s seriously considering starting up again, just to see if it gets him another of those smiles, but at last they’ve arrived, they’re paying the fare and stumbling up familiar steps and pushing open the door.

Steve would know the door with his eyes closed, from the way the wood’s pitted and the white paint’s worn away around the lock; he’s thought so many times about trying to repair it but has never known where to start with DIY, or how Stuart would feel about him interfering. He knows the rest of it, too: the creaky floorboard just on the other side of the door; the heavy tap of their shoes on the wood panels; the orange glow from the streetlight outside slanting in through a high window off to the left; the faint smell of that same old fabric softener, Spring Leaves or whatever its name is. In the old days, Stuart always, _always_ had laundry hanging up in his kitchen; he’d leave it there for weeks, only taking things off the clothes horse when he wanted to wear them again. At first Steve would look at it every time he walked past, and felt like he could practically hear his mother tutting; after a while, he barely noticed it.

 _Barely_ doesn’t meant _not at all_ , of course. Once or twice he tried to quietly put the washing away, which got him shouted at. He smiles at the memory, because it’s that sort of evening and everything seems lovely and wonderful right now. He imagines Morgs rolling his eyes at him, and doesn’t care even a little bit.

“Welcome back,” says Stuart, a touch ruefully, as he pushes unopened mail – far more than a few days’ worth, this is bordering on imminent-avalanche territory – out of the way with his foot. “Drink?”

“Sure,” Steve says. “Feels like I’ve never been away,” he adds, and he’s joking but also means it at the same time. He realises he’ll be disappointed if there’s no washing in the kitchen.

There is. He grins, again.

Stuart gets a couple of bottles of lager from the fridge, and for a few moments they drink in silence, leaning against the kitchen units and gazing round the room at nothing in particular. But it’s an easier silence than the earlier ones; they’re comfortable, here, and the six-month gap and the reasons for it haven’t gone away, but those things have retreated for the time being, behind a cushion of beer and the relief of having finally started to talk, again.

And Steve doesn’t know what’ll happen after this. Things have changed; perhaps it’ll turn out they’ve changed too much. But right now all he wants to do is get close to the other man, close enough to look into those blue eyes and let things take their course; he can worry about the rest some other time.

So, yes, okay, he has been moping; and yes, he’s had more than enough of it.

Steve puts his beer down, crosses the kitchen in two strides – it’s a small room, especially with the omnipresent clothes horse – and pauses in front of Stuart, close enough to watch the pupils of his eyes widen, close enough that reaching up to touch his face doesn’t feel like nearly as much of a leap of faith as it still sort of is. He lets his long fingers drift over the reddening skin, wandering beneath Stuart’s ear and into his hairline; traces the sharp cheekbone with his thumb for a moment, then leans in.

They bash noses. Obviously, because they’ve never done a very convincing job with the big moments. But that’s okay; that’s who they are. Still. He hopes. _Shit._ Are they?

“Sorry,” he mutters.

Stuart chuckles, lifts a hand of his own to brush his thumb over the tip of Steve’s nose. “No comment,” he says, and Steve laughs, softly, goes in a second time, and this time it’s all fine, Stu tastes of beer and home and his lips feel like memory; and it’s so good after so long, like water to a man who hasn’t properly realised he’s been in the desert that Steve feels, stupidly, tears welling in his eyes. He doesn’t know how Stuart will react to that – doesn’t know what he himself thinks about it, either, except that it’s bloody embarrassing and Morgs would be laughing if he could see (but Tim, he knows, would understand) – so when the kiss fades out, he wraps his arms around the other man and rests his chin on his shoulder, so his face stays hidden for a bit.

He remembers the first time they kissed, after ages and ages of bashful build-up: how good it felt to be (almost) on the same level as the mouth that was greedily seeking his, for once.

Then a hand’s taking his own – dry, cool, callused, and with chewed nails, too, no doubt, although he can’t feel them just now – and Stu’s leading Steve to the bedroom, like he might have forgotten where it is, without help. And then for a while they just concentrate on remembering each other, and themselves, in the darkness and the faint red glow from the radio alarm clock display – which is an hour behind the summer, as usual.

**Author's Note:**

> So the prompt asked for, "getting-back-together fic...I'm a sucker for those !! like idk, they broke up when Finny was sent home from the Ashes tour and things got kinda awkward because Stu was playing and he wasn't so they split up, but they both miss each other", and I couldn't resist. I've been wanting to write some Brinn since I planted a seed with a throwaway reference in the first chapter of my fic ['Say What You Mean'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2722235/chapters/6097313) \- what could make Stuart decide to drive all the way from Leeds to Nottingham for one night? And then I saw this prompt and everything clicked into place. I hope you enjoy, dearest prompter :)
> 
> The 'pretty and not into cricket' line is a reference to [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AxznmC1QJ9U), because it's actually impossible to write a Brinn fic without it sneaking in there somewhere.
> 
> I'm largely following awkwardsorta's ['Onions Don't Have Seams'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/926230) for background detail on how our lovestruck boys got together, because it's utterly lovely. On a personal note, I'm delighted to have the chance to include Tim Murtagh in a fic, because he's been the lynchpin of my Telegraph fantasy cricket team for four county seasons now and I adore him; and frankly, anyone who declares in his twitter bio that he's having an affair with Finny simply can't be left out of a story about the lankiest of all England bowlers.


End file.
